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He’s spent way too long making the long sleeve of his shirt lie across one of the mower handles.
It has to be what I think it is.
I peer around the edge of the door, trying to catch the shape of his boxers in front. Is it there?
Lord, I’m juvenile. But it’s the most fun I’ve had since getting thrown out of the wedding. I bite my lip, imagining the scenario in Drew’s head as he stands there trying to control his body parts.
I spot a jar of screws and plan to shake it to see if he will turn at the noise, and then I’ll know for sure. I pick it up but don’t expect the glass to be coated in something sticky.
“Ick!” I drop the glass, and it shatters near my feet, screws flying every direction.
Drew turns. “Don’t move! You’ll cut your feet!”
I forget all about checking his boxers as I realize what I’ve done. I’m stuck in my spot, broken shards all around me.
Drew circles the opposite side of the cot and shoves his bare feet back into his shoes. He stomps across the shed, crunching glass.
He’s so mad, I actually tremble. When he reaches for me, I manage to say, “What are you going to—eeep!” He lifts me into his arms.
“You get into more scrapes than a baby ferret.”
Carrying me this way is a far cry from the sack-of-potatoes method he used to haul me around the building. I’m cradled against his bare chest, his skin warm on mine.
I want to sink against him. The few steps to the safety of the cot are all too short, and soon I’m dumped onto the canvas surface like a bag of rocks.
“There’s a broom here,” he says. “I’ll sweep it up.”
I pull my knees to my chest as he fetches the straw broom from the garden tools. I’m a thousand shades of embarrassed and want to cover up.
When he turns with the broom, though, I see it. Tenting the black silk like the arm of a construction crane, Drew’s rather impressive member is at full mast.
So maybe I do feel better.
Chapter 4
DREW
This woman is making me crazy.
And not because she shattered glass when she’s barefoot.
Ensley has a way about her that is irresistible, like a puppy licking your face.
If that puppy had a rockin’ bod in see-through underwear.
I sweep the glass and screws into a corner. When I set the broom aside, Ensley is curled into a tight ball, arms wrapped around her legs.
“Cold?” I ask.
“Not too bad,” she says, but a quick chatter of her teeth exposes the lie. She won’t meet my gaze.
“Hopefully our clothes will dry.”
“Not with the rain,” she says. “The humidity is too high.”
I sigh. “Let me look around. If there’s a cot, there might be a blanket somewhere.”
I head back to the cabinet and rummage through the tarps. They’re plastic and useless, but my hand grazes something softer. I shove the tarps aside and find a pair of men’s coveralls, the big one-piece kind the maintenance people wear. They’re tan with a patch over the breast pocket.
